His name wasn't Will Bloody Scarlet.
Was there anyone who couldn't figure that one out? Who named a kid Will Scarlet? Scarlet. Come on. Even the blokes in this world knew better, and they didn't even think he was real. They had maybe a dozen stories how Will Scarlet joined up with the Merry Men and got dubbed by Robin Hood. Most of them didn't mention how much drinking had been going on, but like it wasn't obvious.
But, hey, there were worse names. Tinkerbelle, for example. Or Hook. The bad jokes that could be made out of Scarlet were absolutely nothing compared to the bad jokes that could be made out of Hook, even if you left out the dirty ones (not that he meant to). In this world, where stories had a way of turning out to be true, he wondered what the odds were some perverted pirate would go all Peeping Tom on kids parked in lover's lane and get his hook caught in the car door right before they hit the gas and tore it off. It had to be destiny, right?
All the same, there was a mindset that went with being Will Scarlet—the mindset that went with anyone willing to trot after Robin of Locksley, looking all cheerful while the Sheriff's men were shooting at you and having to mean it. It meant the right walk and the right talk. It meant a mouth that bypassed the brain and said, "Sure, let's go break into a dragon's castle and cart off her gold. She won't mind," or "Why wouldn't I want to break into a mental asylum and ask a girl there to go out with me? It's not like there's anything on telly." Above all else, it was the mindset that mattered—even if it was a mindset where you had to keep your brain turned off so it would never ask how you got so stupid. You had to think it and breathe it to make it work.
Mind you, the leather jacket helped.
So, call him Will Scarlet. He didn't mind. It beat Eugene Fitzherbert any day.
Will Scarlet was also the kind of love struck idiot—as in looks-up-with-his-mouth-open-when-it's-raining-till-he-drowns stupidity—who would get exiled to another world (the kind of world run by murderous witches, crime lord caterpillars, and jabberwockies who tried to kill you every other week) just to do right by the girl of his dreams, only to have her dump him or (oh, yeah, don't forget this part) throw him into another world.
So, he had no intention of getting involved with anyone in Storybrooke, Wonderland, Oz, Timbuktu, or anyplace else—especially not the woman stepping out of the pawn shop late that night. There was trouble in heels, no doubt about it. He was hanging out for purely business purposes only, thank you very much. Once Belle Gold closed the store and went home, there would finally be no one out on the street. All the stores would be empty, and an honest thief could do some late night shopping in peace.
He couldn't believe how long it was taking Mrs. Gold to lock the door. Could she not find the keyhole? What was her problem?
Calm, he reminded himself. Things always seemed to take longer when you got impatient. That's how idiots made mistakes (like ignoring the gold and taking something the dragon would really miss when you robbed her place).
But, that was when Keith decided to come along. Keith Notting, because no imagination was apparently part of the package deal if you were going to be an evil queen coming up with names for people. Now, Keith Snotting, that would have been a good name. Or just Keith Snott. Simple, easy to remember, and spot on.
Will had a moment to wonder why the town's most lecherous drunk (really, give the guy a few too many, and he'd come onto a lamppost) was wandering around town this far from The Rabbit Hole at this time of night. Maybe he'd staggered out by accident and been too drunk to find his way back. Then, he saw Keith-the-Snot coming up behind Mrs. Gold.
It wasn't his business, he told himself. It really wasn't his business. He remembered what happened the last time he and Mrs. Gold had met, and he had no desire to repeat it. It wasn't like he owed her anything.
But, then he saw Keith shoving her back into the doorway and snarling at her. Will caught pieces of it. ". . . . Stop being so high and mighty, now he's gone. . . . owe me for what he did. . . . be wishing he gave me the twenty minutes when I'm done. . . ." It got clearer the closer Will got. By the time Snotting said the last, Will was almost behind him.
He hadn't decided to get involved. He knew he hadn't. But, somehow, his feet decided otherwise. He should have known better than to trust them. They never were on his side.
Snot-for-brains Keith had a hand clamped over Mrs. Gold's mouth. He was pressing in tight against her. Will could see her trying to fight him off, but, she was pinned tight against the door. She hadn't seen Will yet. His feet had almost decided to bring him in close enough he would have to do something when Mrs. Gold pulled a hand free.
Will expected to see her hit Keith, to claw him, or even (this would be good) pull a gun on him. Instead, she reached for the door handle behind her. It swung inward. She was able to pull away, stepping out of Keith's grasp. But, the drunk staggered after her, swearing terribly (seriously, Will could swear better than that in his sleep. And probably had). Mrs. Gold grabbed something big and heavy and swung it at Keith. Keith didn't so much duck as stumble drunkenly under it. By rights, he should have collapsed on the floor and not gotten up, but Snotting's liver was putting up a tough fight, keeping him just sober enough to keep moving. He came up, fist clenched, and knocked Mrs. Gold to the ground in the half-second it took Will's feet to launch him at the man.
X
She should have stopped at Granny's and grabbed something to eat, Belle thought, as she fumbled with the keys in the pawn shop door. Her head throbbed as it did too often these days when she forgot meals. But, she could feel people looking at her at the diner and hear the whispers behind her back. It was getting worse. Or she was getting more tired. Either way, it was getting harder and harder to stare at a meal and pretend it meant nothing to her.
Still, she could have called up and asked Ruby to make her a lunch to takeout—or an afternoon snack—or dinner—or a late night snack. But, there was always so much to do. She'd given the Charmings five different potions this week and identified twelve different spells. She'd researched more mundane problems, like the town's census (to see if there was anyone else in town who shouldn't be there) and records on topography and geological surveys (to help the Dwarves). Today, she'd told herself she was finishing the inventory of potion supplies, trying to avoid angry, would-be customers.
Magic came with a price, she'd tried to explain to them. Just because Rumple wasn't there to demand it of them didn't mean it wouldn't come due. If it was something that could be taken care of without magic, she tried to point them in the right direction—Dr. Whale, Archie, the exercise and weight loss books in the library. But, the people she turned away were the ones who whispered behind her back or "accidentally" shoved her as they passed.
It wasn't just about Rumple. They'd been torn out of their lives and woken up after twenty-eight years in this town. They'd nearly been killed by witches, giants, and Peter Pan. They'd been sent back to their homes only to be torn out again and sent back to this land. The ice wall might be gone, but they still remembered Ingrid's curse. They remembered what it was to turn on their friends and family, screaming out whatever small hates had hidden in the dark corners of their hearts before just attacking the people closest to them.
Belle had slept through all that. She didn't know, couldn't know what it had been like—
"I'm afraid," Rumplestiltskin said. She saw the fear in his eyes. More than that, she saw the pain as she turned against him, one more in a long line, forcing him over the line.
No, she couldn't know what that was like.
Her hands shook as she tried to find the keyhole. It was hard to think when her head hurt like this, hard to hold her hands steady when she hadn't eaten since—since—was it yesterday? She'd started to fix tea this morning, but the Sheriff had called. Someone had found what might be a memory stone of Ingrid's. Belle had turned off the stove and run over, hoping for some new revelation that would help them at last (it wasn't one of Ingrid's stones, it was just a bit of rose quartz from a sixth grader's science display that a second grade girl had stolen because it looked pretty, only to lie when she thought she was caught).
Finally, the key slipped into place and she was about to turn it when a man stepped up behind her.
"Hey, witch, remember me?" Keith, once the Sheriff of Nottingham said, shoving her up against the door, his hand clamping over her mouth. "Your boyfriend broke a deal with me. I've come to collect." He reached up under her skirt, fumbling to pull down her nylons and panties.
He meant to do it here, Belle realized, out here on the street. It was late. Drunk as he was, maybe he thought no one would see him, if he was thinking at all. Maybe he thought no one would care once they saw it was her.
Maybe he was right.
Belle tried to push him away, to get a knee in his groin, something. But, she could barely move.
Her arms were pinned back by his weight. His one hand was still held tight over her mouth and the other was still busy with her clothes (her struggles were doing this much good; drunk as he was, he couldn't seem to keep a good grip on her underclothes as he tried to pull them all the way down). She twisted, and his grip loosened for a moment. Belle pulled her hand free.
Space, she thought. If she just had space. Space to fight him, to grab something to defend herself, to just grab the phone and call for help. She grabbed the doorknob and pushed it open, backing away from him.
Keith lurched drunkenly after her. Belle grabbed a bronze bookend and swung. But, the fates seemed to have it in for Belle. He stumbled as he came at her. She missed him entirely.
But, he knew what she'd done. Or tried to do. Raging incoherently, he punched her in the face. Belle was knocked to the ground, losing her grip on the bookend. It slid across the floor, out of reach. She was stunned, knowing she should get up, get ready to fight; but her body wouldn't respond.
Then, she heard Keith cry out. She saw him crash to the ground, another man on top of him. The man's fist connected once with Keith's face, and Keith's eyes rolled up in the back of his head.
Will Scarlet, the man she'd last seen drunkenly curled up around a copy of Through the Looking Glass, a picture of the Red Queen torn out and clutched in his hand, had his fist drawn back, ready to land another blow. He stared at the unconscious man as though not sure what to do next. "What, that's it?" he said. He shook Keith. "Hey, Snotting," he said. "There's Robin Hood over there with his wife, Marian. They're making out. In public. Aren't you going to do something about it?" He shook Keith again. "Bloody hell," he grumbled, getting off him.
He looked over at Belle. She could see he was ready to say something flippant. She could almost see the bad joke coming together in his eyes, till he looked at her face and froze.
No, not her face. The side of her face. Where Keith had hit her. "Uh . . . hi," he said. He nodded towards her face. "Does that, uh, hurt? Much? I mean, I can see it hurts. But, is it bad? You want to go to hospital or something? The emergency clinic ought to be open if Whale's sober. Or you just want to call the sheriff?"
Belle looked at Keith and imagined calling Emma. Would she even be at the station or would she already be home? Or on a date with Hook? Would he come along with her if she called them? And what would he do when saw his good buddy lying unconscious on Belle's floor?
"No," she said. "We can't do that. Just—just let him go."
X
Spoiler Warning: I know it may not look like it at this point, but this is a Rumbelle story. Belle and Will are NOT going to become a couple. I feel like I really need to say that.